


take your coat off and make a mess of me

by likecharity



Category: The Dead Weather
Genre: Angry Sex, Bondage, Breathplay, F/M, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Her hair's still damp with sweat, and her t-shirt's soaked too from the show, and maybe to another man she would seem disgusting, but this is how he likes her best—when she's still Baby Ruthless, high from performing, fierce and bold and demanding. A woman you have to restrain.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	take your coat off and make a mess of me

**Author's Note:**

> I have very little idea of where this came from, but here it is. I guess I've probably just been wanting to write some quick and dirty submissive!Alison for a while now. Title from 'Two Left Feet' by Anya Marina.

He ties her hands down, because otherwise they roam, and he doesn't like to let them. He uses whatever's nearby and suitable—tonight it's a scarf and one of her flimsy old blouses, a black one that's got more holes than fabric (though he'll admit it's exactly this sort of thing that causes them to become so ragged). She throws out her arms almost gleefully, lets them go limp as he brusquely fastens them to the headboard of the hotel bed. She wriggles a little in anticipation. Sometimes she'll bait him, bite out things like _control freak_ just to get him more riled up, but tonight she's silent. It's almost like she recognises that she doesn't _need_ to say anything, knows her antics onstage tonight were more than enough to get him just the right amount of pissed and horny.

She's still wearing her t-shirt because he hasn't bothered to stop and pull it off her, but her jeans and panties are down around her ankles, tangled where he yanked them out of the way to shove his hand between her thighs as soon as they were behind a locked door. It was awkward for her to make her way to the bed, but he thinks she _liked_ that, having to waddle a little and embarrass herself in front of him, discarded clothing like shackles keeping her ankles pinned together. The things she's willing to do for him...well, he doesn't like to let himself think about it.

He pulls the second knot tight and she whimpers a little bit, lying there all helpless. He sits back and pulls his shirt over his head by the neck, tossing it on the floor, and then gives himself a moment to admire her. He wouldn't, usually—it feels too risky to let himself get too wrapped up in this, to really _think_ about it and process whatever feelings he has for her—but tonight he tells himself he's only doing it to make her squirm some more. 

And she does, under his gaze, twisting her head to try and get the hair out of her eyes. She can't even manage that, and he chuckles softly, leaning over her to tuck it behind her ear. It's still damp with sweat, and her t-shirt's soaked too from the show, and maybe to another man she would seem disgusting, but this is how he likes her best—when she's still Baby Ruthless, high from performing, fierce and bold and demanding. A woman you have to restrain. 

It's like they're still playing characters; it's safe, they can pretend. She grins up at him, all teeth, jutting her chin like she does when she's silently asking him for a kiss. He leans in and darts back, teasing her, but before long he can't stand torturing _himself_ like this and gives in, kissing her passionately, cradling her head with his hand. She squirms against him some more, hitching her hips up to grind against his denim-clad thigh.

"Shameless," he mutters against her lips, but she just grins.

He forces himself to pull back, shifting down the bed and lifting up her feet, pulling off her boots, socks, jeans, panties. He starts out taking his time with it, just wanting to make her get _really_ impatient because it's always a little bit amusing—but he doesn't have the willpower, it turns out, and her clothes are a heap on the floor in mere seconds. He spreads her legs and settles himself between them, and she stares down at him, her cheeks flushed. She always likes to watch when he undresses, and it's why—more often than not—he'll remain mostly-dressed, not wanting to give her the satisfaction.

It depends how good she's been onstage, of course, and tonight she was a fucking menace—in his space every spare second, deliberately letting their lips brush when they shared the mic, leaning against him. He feels a little spike of anger, remembering. It's all right to an extent; it's part of the show and it definitely gets people talking, but sometimes she goes too far and it drives him crazy. It reminds him how much he really _wants_ her, and how willing she is, and it's almost too much to take—especially when he's standing up there in front of the crowd.

He unzips his fly, pulls the waistband of his boxers down over his erection, feeling it ache against the palm of his hand. He shifts in closer, and presses his cock against her, just sliding it between her folds, up, down, letting out a raspy sigh at the friction of it. It gathers her wetness quickly—she's always so fucking wet for him, his fingers were soaked as soon as he touched her tonight. He'd bet it would be just the same if he were to slide his hand down the front of her jeans onstage. His breath catches just thinking about it.

"Jack," she pleads, and he smiles to himself—it usually takes far longer for her to start begging, so it must mean she's _really_ desperate. She squirms again, hips twisting like she's trying to get him inside her, and he watches her wrists pull at the ties. If she keeps doing that they're going to be red and raw tomorrow and she'll have to cover up with long sleeves, which he knows she _hates_ in this hot weather. Right now she doesn't seem to care, writhing impatiently before him.

"What do you want?" he murmurs, dragging it out just a little bit more, just as much as he can stand it. He just loves to _hear_ her, loves to get her to admit it. He knows she's the same—that she's always so fucking smug whenever he grabs her tightly around the arm and drags her off upstairs after a show. For her, the truth is in the action of it, but he likes to listen to her say it out loud.

"Jack..." she whines again, and he pushes up against her clit, feels the pulse of it. She shudders at the intensity, the pressure, and he grins. " _Fuck._ Fuck me."

"Dirty mouth," he chides, and she groans in frustration as he brings his hand up, pressing one finger to her slightly parted lips. She opens them wider, sucks his finger in, suckles for a moment and then bites.

"Fuck me," she demands, voice muffled and tongue pressing against his fingertip, wet and warm.

Her teeth loosen up and he slides his finger deeper, right to the back of her tongue. She doesn't gag, just stares him down defiantly, and he can't wait any longer—he reaches down with his other hand, guides himself in, cock pushing deep into the tight heat of her, slow as he can stand it. She's so fucking good. His head starts to roll back instinctively, but he holds it steady and slides his hand over to her hip, pushing up the hem of her t-shirt to expose the pale skin of her stomach.

When he's fully sheathed inside of her, she lets out a low moan, tossing back her hair, throwing her head back against the pillows. He pulls back a little only to drive right back in, hard, and this time she moans a hell of a lot louder. Quickly, he stifles the sound with his palm, pressing his hand right over her mouth—Dean and LJ's rooms are just across the hall, and he has no idea if they're in them, or how thin the walls are. He still prefers to kid himself that no one knows what the two of them do when they disappear off together.

Her resulting moans are muffled against his hand and she starts to try to meet his thrusts, her hips working towards him, desperate for it. She loves it when he smothers her like this, loves feeling his big hand over her face. He first discovered the power of it when they were hanging out with the others one time and she wouldn't shut up—he just did it jokingly and was surprised when she immediately fell silent. She didn't even push him away or do anything obnoxious like lick his palm, she just went totally compliant. It was an instant reaction, as though it was something she'd experienced many times before. 

He grips her hip, feeling the bone of it curve into his palm, and covers her mouth and fucks her hard, until the bed is rocking rhythmically against the wall and he doesn't care about keeping quiet anymore. The hand on her hip slides higher, rumpling the fabric of her t-shirt, pushing it up to expose one flushed, hard nipple. His other hand slips from her mouth and she's panting now, her face pink and almost grimacing, her whole body taut and tense for him. But then his hands meet at her throat, and she goes limp, her lips stretching into an exhausted smile. 

He keeps his hands still, just on either side of her neck, curled around her shoulders, his thumbs across her collarbone. "Go on," she says breathlessly, grinning in anticipation, lifting up her head in order to strain a little against his hands. He says nothing, smiling wickedly back at her, his hips working shallowly, cock thrusting deep inside. 

"Go _on_ ," she spits out, impatient, and he wants to say _what?_ and grin sardonically and make her beg for it, but he's too greedy, eager just like she is. He wraps his fingers around her throat and squeezes, quick and sudden, watching her pupils dilate and her lips fall open. She'd let him choke her to death if he wasn't careful, he's sure—she gets so fucking caught up in it—so he has to be careful, letting go when she looks like she's about to pass out. 

It's difficult to judge, though; she looks blissed out already, and he can feel her tendons working against his fingers as he jabs his thumb just under her jaw, tightening his grip. She makes these sounds—gasps at first, and then little choking coughs, her throat all raw, and all the while he's pounding into her, hard and fast. He wonders if he's actually endangering her voice, or if this is what makes it sound so good, enables her to howl like she does. 

He eases off a second, lets her catch her breath, and she draws it in, hoarse and gasping, looking dazed. Almost high. She jerks her chin at him as if to say _c'mon, again, what are you waiting for?_ and he complies, one hand this time, big enough to reach quite a way around her neck. His other hand snakes down the center of her, down between her legs and through the sparse dark hair to where he disappears inside, those flushed slick folds parting to let him in. He teases with his fingers, finds her clit, gentle there even as he's gripping her throat so tight he's afraid he'll leave marks. She bucks wildly against him and he holds her down, grinning, relentless, finger flickering over her clit as he fucks her, chokes her, brings her closer and closer to the edge—

He sees her fists start to clench and unclench, uselessly, grabbing frantically at nothing, and she's spluttering out a desperate _yes, yes_ , and then he feels that same clenching around his cock, a quick spasm, so tight he can't help but groan. She comes with her eyes shut and her mouth open, teeth gnawing at her lower lip, and he keeps going a moment longer than he needs to, stroking her where she's oversensitive and making her shake and squirm. He lets go of her throat and takes a handful of her shirt instead, wrapping the fabric around his fist, fucking her harder and harder and closing his eyes because she's gazing at him in that way that he hates.

Getting close, he pulls out of her. He doesn't need to, but she likes it, and he'll admit that he does too—it feels like he's marking her, claiming her. He strokes himself feverishly against her, feeling the texture of her pubic hair against the tender skin of his cock. He comes with a rough moan, shooting right up across her belly and onto her t-shirt. He grips tightly and shudders, and then slowly comes down, letting himself relax.

Perhaps the best thing about Alison is that, at least at times like these, the two of them are on the same wavelength. She doesn't want him to stick around and cuddle her, hold her 'til she falls asleep or any of that bullshit. She wants him out just as much as he wants to _get_ out, because suddenly, for some reason, they can't stand the sight of each other.

"You stained it, you asshole," Alison gripes, her voice rough as hell as she peers down at herself, the white splatter stark against the black fabric of her shirt.

Jack says nothing, stuffing himself back into his jeans and coming round the side of the bed to untie her—though honestly, sometimes he toys with the idea of just leaving her like this for an hour or so, especially when she starts bitching at him so soon. He tugs harshly at the ties and gets them loose, and Alison sits up, nursing her sore wrists in her lap.

"Get out, I'm gonna shower," she croaks.

"Good idea," Jack retorts, "you're a mess."

Alison gives him the finger, and Jack pretends not to notice as he bends over to pick his shirt up off the floor. He leaves her room without looking back, trying not to think about how beautiful she looked when she came, tortured and gorgeous, her black hair spread out on the pillow around her. Instead, he thinks of how she's going to piss him off next, what new ways she'll find to wind him up onstage. He's determined to resist. They have another show tomorrow night, and deep down he knows they're just going to end up right back here doing it all again—but for now, it's nice to pretend otherwise.


End file.
